


One More Kiss

by littlebitchboy



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:07:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27922009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlebitchboy/pseuds/littlebitchboy
Summary: “Wha…” Paul says, startled, right before John lands a big, loud kiss right on his lips. Paul splutters, pushes the already retreating John away. “What the hell was that?!” He wipes his mouth furiously, cheeks burning red from embarrassment and anger. John cackles loudly.“A kiss, you great, big idiot.” He says.-----Six kisses in six cities
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 29
Kudos: 105





	1. Smacker

**Author's Note:**

> So... I've attempted to write a multi-chapter thingy. I do tend to start hating the thing I've created sooner or later, but I'll try to push through that and post this whole thing anyway, if just to complete something (which is not my strong suit).
> 
> But anyway! I hope you enjoy this short first chapter, if you don't that's okay! Maybe I already hate it a bit, so I couldn't blame you.

**Liverpool, 1957**

It’s been a long time since his fingers had hurt this bad. Throbbing with a dull pain that intensifies every time he starts over. The same melody, the same opening riff. Messing up and trying again.

Maybe it had been the fall of last year. One year is a long time when you’re young. Paul feels it was a life time ago, just 14, adjusting to a life without a mother. Locking himself away to play, play, play. He’d been sure he’d pop a blister and bleed all over the strings. But still, it had been a satisfying ache, it still was. It tells of persistence and improvement. And it’s comforting in it’s tangibility, it feels more real than the hole in his heart, the unbearable grief. So he’d played, seasons changing outside the window and slowly but surely the noises he’d been making had begun to sound a little less amateurish.

It’s the same pain now, trying to get it right. Over and over.

“God, will he stop that? I’m going insane.” Len says. Paul tears his focused gaze from the fretboard. There’s an air of annoyance in the room that he hasn’t notice until just now. A flickering tension. He looks at the three of them. Colin, Len and Griffiths in matching white button ups, glaring back at him as if what he was doing was deeply offensive to them. Paul can’t understand what it’s all about, this animosity, but he stops his playing nonetheless.

“Oh, lay of the poor sod, he’s only nervous. Baby’s first real gig and all.” John says, seemingly unbothered. He’s sitting with his feet up on the table, smoking like a chimney.

“I’m not nervous.” Paul lies. He continues his playing, Raunchy once again. There’s a collective sigh from the band.

“Sure you’re not.” John scoffs, tapping his cigarette, making the ashes rain down onto the leg of his trousers.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe Paul has a harder time getting the song right with how sweaty his hands are, slipping up and down the neck of his guitar. Maybe his nails are short and stubby with how he’s been biting them all morning. Maybe there’s a flutter of dread in his chest.

 _“Baby’s first gig.”_ Well, he’s not going to come across as more of a baby by admitting to his anxiety. Being the youngest is already hard enough.

John can be cruel. He seems to enjoy belittling people, pressing their buttons. Paul has, in the short amount of time they’ve known each other, seen him in a plethora of fights. Blowing up on people at the pub, fists and slurs that inevitably gets him tossed out. Bantering with the mates, jokes that are not quite jokes, often leading to angry spats. Paul has been on the receiving end of this cruelty more than a few times. His age and his girlish looks are often the butt of a joke. But Paul can shake it off, pretend it doesn’t bother him.

It’s not to be taken seriously, even if it sometimes stings a bit. John doesn’t mean half the things he say it seems. He’ll soften eventually, throw and arm around Paul’s shoulders and buy him a drink. Besides, when somebody else is the target of John’s sharp tongue, Paul’ll find it amusing. His poignant observations, they can be outright hilarious. So who is Paul to flee when John turns on him? He turns on everybody once in a while.

“Please, McCartney.” Colin groans. “Could you at least play something different?”

“Fine.” Paul mutters and launches into a sloppy rendition of That’ll Be The Day. He can never seem to get the intro right, no matter how many times George shows him the way.

“Or just have a ciggie and calm down.” John says. He jumps to his feet, straightens the collar of his jacket. He looks undeniably cool, effortless. Always does, really. It was the first thing Paul had noticed about him, that summer day at the fete. His ruffled quiff, his confidence. It hadn’t even mattered that his guitar-playing had been sub-par, or that he hadn’t known the words to the songs. John can sell anything with just the sheer energy he radiates.

Paul surrenders, puts the guitar down and takes the cigarette John offers.

“John should be given a medal for that.” Griffiths says. Len and Colin are sagging in relief, seemingly enjoying the silence. Paul glowers at them, inhales a mouthful of smoke.

“Yeah, call up the army or who ever is in charge of that sort of thing.” John says.

“I’ll kill you before they get the chance.”

“He’s in a mood! What did I say, aye? All twitchy and nervous, like. Don’t worry, Paul, I’ll only kick you out of the band if you mess up.”

Paul isn’t sure if he should believe that. The whole character of John Lennon should be taken with a grain of salt. Still, the joke, or whatever it is, spikes his anxiety. He desperately wants to keep playing with John. It’s the best thing he’s ever done after all. The guy doesn’t have the same finesse or patience that George does but it doesn’t matter. Nothing is as fun to Paul as sitting alone with John, knees knocking together on the floor of his bedroom, trying to figure out some tune from the radio.

“Okay, lads.” Nigel appears at the door. “You’re on.”

“Alright.” Colin twiddles his drumsticks. Griffiths grabs his guitar. Len doesn’t have anything to do but follow, his tea-chest bass is waiting for him on stage. Paul is about to stand up when John grips him around the neck and leans down towards him.

“Wha…” Paul says, startled, right before John lands a big, loud kiss right on his lips. Paul splutters, pushes the already retreating John away. “What the hell was that?!” He wipes his mouth furiously, cheeks burning red from embarrassment and anger. John cackles loudly.

“A kiss, you great, big idiot.” He says. The others join in with the laughter and Paul’s mortification only grows. If he were one to give up easily, he might have just left in that moment.

“Well…!” Paul is struggling with words. “Well, why?!”

“For good luck, what else?” John says as if the whole thing is obvious.

“Don’t worry, Paul. John’s a weird one. We’ve all been pestered by him once or twice. Especially poor Shotton.” Colin says between snorts of laughter. They file out the door with a newfound sense of amusement. All on Paul’s expense.

John lingers with his eyes on him, still grinning like mad. Paul stands up, successfully this time and gives the lad a wide berth as he follows the rest of the band out to the hall.

“It was a joke.” John says, as if it needed clarification. Of course it’s a joke, everything is a joke to him until he decides differently.

“Wanker.” Paul mutters.

“Tosser.” John replies, close behind as they walk towards their waiting performance. Paul scowls at the ground. Lips still tingling with the sensation of John’s lips on his. Cheeks still bright and hot. Screw this whole thing, he thinks. But he is still as nervous as ever. Stomach in a clench as they greet their audience.

They start their first number, stumble through the intro, Paul fumbling on the strings. John leans close, not to sing into the microphone, but to whisper in Paul’s ear.

“Why don’t we just snog right here on stage and make everybody piss themselves, yeah?” Paul throws him a look, John with his shit eating grin.

 _“You’re a loon.”_ He mouths. John winks. They sing.

Paul do mess up, badly. He ruins the whole of Guitar Boogie and he can’t say he does much better the rest of the gig. None of his usual composure to be found, his usual talent. But John doesn’t kick him out of the band. He pats him on the back roughly as the show ends, offers him another cigarette.

All is forgiven.


	2. Küssen

**Hamburg, 1960**

It’s night. Earlier in the evening it had been raining, but it has since stopped. Now the air is crisp and clean. As clean as anything can be in this dirty part of the city.

The streets are lit up by neon signs, they dip their red colour into the puddles. A drip, drip, drip from the drying roof tops. Slow and steady, a rhythm fit for a ballad, something to dance with your sweetheart to. Paul’s sweetheart is back at home in England. There’s no sweethearts to be found in Hamburg. Only scantily clad women, waiting to be seduced on every street corner. And yes, he wants to woo them all, if only for another night of passion and nothing more.

George had gotten lucky first. He gets lucky a lot since that fateful night he lost his virginity. He’d left them early on for a stripper. A woman in her late twenties, beautiful in a tired sort of way. A little lost behind the eyes.

It’s just the three of them now. On a peruse down the infamous Herbertstraße. St. Pauli’s own little red light district. They’d had to see it for themselves, 200 feet bathed in scarlet. 200 feet lined with the most expensive women. The nazi’s had built barricades on both ends of the street in an attempt to lock away the sin and the sex. Of course, it was doomed to fail, where there’s people, there is crime and copulation. But for what it’s worth, everywhere else the prostitution and pimping is slightly more hush hush, on the down low.

Those barricades still exist now, walls built to keep out the women and the children. Enter at your own risk. And they had. The three of them. John and Paul. And Stu. The fucking menace. Talking a mile a minute, John responding as enthusiastically. They’re all jittery from the prellies.

John had had five of them during the course of the evening, by the time their last set had ended, he’d been bouncing off the walls. Paul had only had one, but it had lasted him until now. He has no idea how many Stu’s had, because why would he notice? Stu’s a wallflower and when he is not a wallflower he’s an annoying prick.

“…and she didn’t even…” Paul has tuned out of the conversation. Watching the girls instead, undressing them with his eyes, though there is not much undressing that needs to be done. Outside in the cold late fall, everybody is bundled up in their coats. Business men looking for something their wives aren’t able to provide, barely legal boys, like themselves, seeking a thrill. But behind the glass, the ladies are practically naked. All but for a slip of lace, a lovely shade of silk.

A group of men are hollering in German. Paul is not by any means good at speaking the language, let alone understand it when it’s spoken between drunken locals, but he can guess the sort of things they are saying. Crude, rude, lewd. But the prostitutes can only encourage that sort of behaviour, in the hopes of putting dinner on the table another night. They press up against the glass and shake their stuff.

Paul eyes them as he passes, they throw him come-hither looks. He doesn’t come neither hither nor thither. Not until a particular woman catches his eye.

Absentmindedly he approaches the window. Her window. She’s sitting down on a stool, examining her finger nails in an elegantly lazy fashion. As if she’s bored by the whole thing. Maybe it’s the nonchalance that tempts him. Or maybe it’s her sharp features, prominent cheekbones, a lovely jawline, her hair, seemingly tinted red even behind the harsh lighting.

As he comes to a stop in front of the glass, she finally looks up at him. She smiles a smile, ruby lips. An acknowledgement and nothing more, she looks down at her nails again, procedes to ignore him. It’s like he’s not there. She leans back, stretches her long legs, purses her lips, as if she’s in deep thought. He’s as confused as he is intrigued by it. Until he realises. It’s a tactic. Doesn’t men like a tease? A chase? Don’t they enjoy a bit of attitude? And she is all attitude. Acting like she knows she is worth a pretty penny.

“Paul? Hey what you up to?” Paul vaguely registers John’s voice from down the road, distinct with it’s Scouse tinge over the symphony of horny, heckling germans.

“Oh? Nothing, I…” Paul says, distracted. With a clatter of cuban heels against the road, John appears behind him. Impossible to miss with his panting breath, the smell of Woodbines and beer. 

“Bird-watching are we? You could never afford her, mate.” John says.

“I wasn’t really…” Paul begins.

“But I could give you one for free, what do you say?” John’s words tickle against the nape of Paul’s neck. There’s laughter in his voice.

“No thanks.” Paul says, amused.

“Really? You sure? You don’t know what you’re missing.” John steps in front of him, leaning against the glass. Painted in the same red hue as the girl, framed by the same window. He narrows his eyes in a seductive manner, writhes his body in a mocking attempt to mimic the whores. Shaking their stuff. Shaking his stuff.

“John!” Paul lets out a surprised laugh. How that surprise is possible is a question for the gods, John acts crazy and outlandish most every day. Very predictable, how unpredictable he is.

“Yes, say my name like that.” John licks his lips. “Make Fräulein cream her knickers.”

“You’re terrible! Stop that!”

“More you say?” John steps closer to push himself against Paul, a hand to his chest and hair tickling against his cheek. He has no assets to show off, that with not being a girl and all. He is sweat soaked and high off his mind and it’s deeply unsexy and hilarious.

“Is your hearing as bad as your sight?” Paul asks.

“Ich spreche kein englisch.”

“You did a second ago.”

“Shut up.” John says, still smiling as he leans even closer. A vision of ecstasy. Then a kiss. John captures Paul’s lips. A steady grip around his upper arms, a lingering smooch. Paul sees him close his eyes, feels it, a flutter of lashes against the bridge of his nose. He can’t help but giggle.

“You’re absolutely disgusting.” He says as they part, voice heavy with fondness for John and his crazy antics.

But John’s smile falls from his face. It slips away into the night and leaves him empty and blank for a second before a scowl takes its place. Paul furrows his brow at the sudden change of atmosphere.

“Fuck you, Paul.”

“What?”

John pushes away, a mad, furious glint to his eyes. Then he turns on his heel and storms down the street.

“What did I do?” Paul wonders aloud. It’s a question for nobody in particular, just his general confusion formed into words. But Stu, the fucker, answer him anyway.

“He gets a little like that sometimes.” He says, sounding almost bored at the turn of events. He has a knowing look on his face through, like he is wiser than Paul, above him. It fuels a mad rage inside of him.

“I know.” Paul seethes. “He’s my best mate.”

“Well it seems there is a lot you _don’t_ know about him.” Stu bites back. “Maybe if you looked further than your own nose.”

“You…” Paul is about to let every insult he’s been holding back the last couple of weeks, flood out of him, crash over Stu. But Stu interrupts him before that can happen.

“I’ll make sure he gets back okay.” He says, then follows John’s steadily retreating figure. Disappearing into the crowd of pedestrians. Paul stands alone, every breath a cloud of smoke in the cold, cold night.

The feeling is intense. Something that almost rips him to shreds, inside and out. He resists the urge to lash out, he wants to punch something, kick something. Pretend it’s Stu’s ugly mug. But he merely folds his hands into fists and tries exhaling his anger, breathing it out and letting it go.

It doesn’t do much, it’s not that easy. Because it’s just such a wrong thing. Stu going after John, Paul left behind. It’s Paul and John, for fucks sake. Paul and John who lives and breathes music, with the mutual sorrow and the mutual understandment. Paul and John who writes songs together, sharing laughter and unspoken pain. Stu wouldn’t get that sort of thing. So who is he to say that Paul doesn’t know John? He knows him like he knows the back of his hand!

From the corner of his eye he catches a glimpse of the girl in the window. She’s leaned forward, elbow resting on her knee, eyebrows quirked with interest. Maybe she found the interaction between the three young boys very entertaining, enough to pull her out of her pretending. Paul avoids her eyes, starts down the street, the opposite way.

The prossies, the ogling men with their bulging trousers and their salivating mouths. The sex suddenly feels wrong, feels stifling around him. He wants away from it all. As far away as he can get.

He exits the gates at the end of the street, rounds the corner and heads north on Davidstraße towards the Reeperbahn.

He knows John, he thinks. Really knows him. But perhaps he doesn’t always understand him. His rapidly changing moods, Paul can’t always keep up with him.

He walks and he walks until the neighbourhoods start to look ordinary and dull. Dark and serene, lulled to sleep long ago. The quiet is soothing. He, too, wants to sleep. In a proper bed with proper sheets. Wants to wake up to his dad shuffling around downstairs, preparing breakfast, whistling a tune.

The lone little Preludin he had washed down with beer back at the Kaiserkeller has worn off. Now his limbs feel like concrete, his feet hurts, his head is pounding. He feels he is melting into the asphalt, slowly disintegrating.

He wonders what the time might be. Looks to the church tower in the distance with its clock. A beacon of hope over the roof tops. She’s a little past six in the morning. That marks 24 hours since the last time Paul slept.

Hamburg is like a never ending fever dream. A wet fever dream, an odd combination, but the sex and the absurdity follows him which ever way he goes. He’d been roused from sleep in the early hours of morn by the sounds of Pete and some girl going at it like a pair of bunnies. It’d been impossible to drift off again.

He buries his hands in his pockets, his fingers only find lint and old, crumpled receipts. If he’d had a penny to spare he’d might’ve found himself a room for the night, at some cheep inn. A place with some peace and quiet. But every last bit of his salary has already been spent on drinks, ciggies, prellies, food. So his only option is to return to the Bambi Kino or keep roaming the streets. By now he’s too tired for the latter. He begins the walk back.

Back to the seedy quarters. He is relieved to find his and Pete’s little room empty. It’s still cold and dark and filthy, but at least it’s empty.

Without undressing, he climbs into bed. If you can call that lumpy, uncomfortable thing a bed. Still, it doesn’t take him long until he’s fast asleep.

He has no idea what time it is when he awakes the next day. But he still feels terrible, that’s for sure. Turning every trouser pocket inside out, searching under his mattress, shaking his wallet, he manages to find enough coins for something small at Harold’s.

Outside it’s still dark. It confuses him. Has he slept a lot or a little or barely at all? With the sluggish feel to his body its impossible to tell. And with winter around the corner, the sun barely shows its face no matter what. It could be anything from morning to afternoon to night time.

He finds Pete, George and Rory Storm at their usual table down at Harold’s café. Gorging on hamburgers.

“You look dreadful.” George says, mouth full. Paul merely grunts in reply, sits down next to him. A half eaten tomato slips out from between the buns and lands on George’s plate. The perception of cleanliness and of boundaries has completely changed for Paul since their arrival in Germany and so he doesn’t think twice about stealing that tomato, eating it.

“Hey! I wanted that!” George exclaims, lips red with ketchup. Paul chews and swallows without any sense of regret.

“Wipe your mouth, kid.” He says. George looks ready to kill. He’s touchy when it comes to food. Like a stray dog with trust issues. Growling and snarling if somebody dares come too close to the scraps he’s found in the garbage.

The waitress comes along, he orders himself a frikadellen to match the others.

“What’s the time anyway?” He asks as she saunters away to leave his order to the chef.

“About half past five.” Pete answers, licking his fingers clean. Paul nods. Still a couple of hours until their first set begins. Enough time to eat without a hurry, to wash up a bit. Well, that doesn’t end up happening. Because as his early dinner arrives and he takes his first bite, the inevitable happens. John appears in his mind. It begins with the simple wish to have him there. Paul can’t help but to feel a sort of void to his existence when John isn’t around. It’s because they’re best mates, because they’re thick as theives, inseparable most of the time. John is practically a part of him, Paul thinks. And then he thinks of yesterday. Of the silly kiss and the anger that followed.

“Have you seen John today?” Paul asks George, the only one left at the table. The others had left as soon as they’d finished their plates. But George, the good mate he is, had stayed to keep him company. Smoking a cigarette for dessert.

“Yeah, he was still asleep when I got up. T’was around noon I think.” 

And Paul can’t stop thinking about him for the rest of the meal. Every bite, John, John, John. Paul’s not fond of the fights. They happen frequently, because John has a temper and they’re both too stubborn for their own good. But every time, Paul longs to make up, laugh again, play again. Make it right and make it good.

So maybe he eats too fast. George quirks his eyebrow in a silent question. Paul doesn’t feel like answering that question so he ignores him. He wipes the grease from his hands on a napkin and stands to leave.

As they walk down Große Freiheit, Paul beings wracking his mind for possible locations, where John might be. Not Harold’s, obviously. Probably not the Bambi Kino, they only sleep and shag there and Paul would guess John was up to none of those things at the moment. And it’s a bit early to hang around the Kaiserkeller. Still, as it’s right across the street, Paul peeks his head through the door anyway to make sure.

“What you doing?” George wonders.

“Nothing.” Paul says. John isn’t there.

“Doesn’t look like nothing to me.” George is hot on his heels as Paul continues what proves to be a fruitless search. Up and down the streets all over St. Pauli. Peering through the windows of all the usual places they frequent. It’s useless really, because as the clock near 8.30 and they return to the Kaiserkeller for their gig, there he is. John smoking outside the club.

George heads inside to tune his guitar. Paul stays, sidles up to his mate. Two English lads, decked in leather from head to toe. Leaning against the red and black facade of the Kaiserkeller.

Paul lights himself a fag, too. It feels right, smoking with John. It’s how they smooth things over, the two of them. Cigarettes and pretending. Like nothing has happened, like everything’s peachy keen.

“You reckon those art student’s will show up again?” Paul says in an attempt to strike up lighthearted conversation. John exhales a cloud of smoke, he doesn’t take the bait. “The bird is pretty cute. Wouldn’t mind giving her a go.” They can always bond over girls, when everything else fails. And everybody has a crush on that Astrid chick. She’s captivating with her short, blonde hair, always dressed in black, a camera around her neck. But John’s silence persists.

A river of pedestrians flow through Große Freiheit. The usual crowd, sailors and artists and low down ruffians. Shivering in the cold. December will soon arrive and with it, Christmas. Paul wonders how the holidays’ll pan out in this little part of hell. He thinks and he waits. Waits for John.

John drops his cigarette butt on the asphalt, steps on it to smother the embers. Rocking on the balls of his feet, fingers seeking warmth in the pockets of his leather jacket. Paul thinks he’s about to leave him there, go inside and ready himself for the show. He’s desperate for things to resolve before they start playing for the night. He wants the usual banter on stage, the usual connection that appears between them when they harmonise, the easy mingling of their voices and their melodies. Still, he keeps quiet. Too proud to beg. But John doesn’t leave.

“I’m fucking knackered.” He says instead. Paul feels a weight lift from his shoulders at the sound of his voice.

“Yeah, it’s fun, but it’s draining as hell. This whole thing.” Paul says. It’s the first time he’s admitted to it. The tiredness, always lurking in the corner every which way he turns in this city.

“You have any prellies left?” John looks at him. Face still stiff with an emotion of some kind. Something more than just the exhaustion. Something Paul can’t quite figure out.

“Yeah.” A little plastic bag, crammed into the backpocket of his skin tight trousers. He pulls it out, hides it in his sleeve. Despite St. Pauli being a pit of debauchery, a bit of subtlety is never wrong. John takes it from him, his cold fingers brushing against Paul’s. He doesn’t say his thanks. Mimi, bless her, had tried her best, but John hadn’t grown up proper anyway. No magic words, only a long string of bad behaviour.

He swallows two little pills dry.

“Come on, then. Or Koschmider will skin us alive for being late.” John says. Paul follows him inside.


	3. Baiser

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to include Paris, didn't I? Paris is important!

**Paris, 1961**

She roams the halls. He follows her.

They’re upperclass, he in a pristine suit, carefully combed hair. She in a sparkling dress, painted face. They’re beautiful lovers in a beautiful place. High ceilings and marble floors, hand painted wallpaper and ornate mirrors.

Paul cannot understand a word said, but he finds he does not mind. He’s enraptured by all of it. The aesthetic, rich and symmetrical, striking in black and white on the silver screen. The dark yet sensual tone, a fine line between passion and obsession, blooming between the characters. Accentuated by a dramatic score. And the language. Maybe he falls in love just a little with each and everyone, just be listening to them speak. Each word is as harmonious and melodic as the next one. It’s the sound of romance.

“When are they going to shag? I’m bored.” John leans across the plush, velvet armrest to whisper into Paul’s ear. The hot puff of air sends an involuntary shiver down his spine. He laughs, muffled behind the palm of his hand.

“You chose this movie.” Paul whispers back.

“‘Cause the bird is fit and I figured we’d see her naked. It’s a French film, right? They’re all about the sex aren’t they? Well, not in this movie, apparently.”

“Shush.” Paul is still laughing. He tries to tune back into the movie, but John is distracting him. Still keeping close, pressing against his side.

“Do you understand any of this shite?” He asks.

“No, my French is limited to hello, goodbye and ordering coffee.” Paul says.

“I mean besides that. It seems all over the place.”

“A bit confusing, perhaps.”

“That’s an understatement, lad. We should’ve just seen that western-looking one.”

“Then we’d be staring at men and men only all evening. Is that any better?”

“Only if they’re naked.” A smile can be heard through John’s whisper. Paul turns to him, tries to hide his amusement behind a stoney glare.

“Get your head out of the gutter.”

“That’s were my brain lives.”

“Oh, I noticed.”

“SCHHHH!” John and Paul both startle at the sudden noise, they both turn simultaneously to look over their shoulders. A woman glares at them from a few rows back.

“Oh, come on! Gotta entertain ourselves somehow! This movie is crap!” John says loudly.

“John!” Paul elbows him hard.

“Ow!”

“They’ll throw us out if you don’t shut your gob. Behave yourself!” Paul leans close to shout-whisper at him. John bursts into laughter, he often does when lectured, especially if the lecture is given by Paul. Because Paul has no reigns over him, because Paul finds joy in John’s stupidity and only pretends he doesn’t when the situation requires it. So John laughs, a laughter filled with boyish glee and soon Paul gives in, too. Heads tilted together they try stifling their giggles.

Once the lunacy starts, it’s hard to stop. They’re too good at egging each other on and by the end of it they’re usually in stitches having forgotten what was so funny in the first place. But tonight, they quiet down with success by avoiding eye contact, no touching and no looking is the rule. They stare straight ahead and make it through. By the time the credits roll, John is on his tenth yawn of the hour.

“Not a single tit! I should demand my money back!” He says as they exit the theatre.

The cold fall make Paul’s teeth clatter, a chock to the system after the warm, dead air in the auditorium.

“I thought it was quite good.” Paul turns up the collar of his coat against the wind. “It was beautifully shot.”

“You pretentious arsehole. Remind me why I like you again?”

“Because of my looks?”

“Aye, that’s it.”

They start walking mindlessly. While inside the theatre, the sun had set, leaving the sky in hues of purple and blue. Despite the biting cold, it’s a wonderful evening. No stars to be seen, the city smog makes sure of that, but the night is alive with flashing lights and cheerful Parisians. Outside the pubs and cafés, the outdoor seating areas are crammed with people, chatting in rapid French, bundled in blankets and coats. Whether happy or mad, everybody seems high energy in this part of the world. Expressing feeling in both speech and mannerisms, passionate, loud voices and eccentric hand movements. Not like old England where most have their typical British stiff upper lips. It’s a nice change of pace, Paul feels.

“You fancy a drink?” John asks as the street gives way to a bridge, connecting south and north over the Seine. They stop for a while, to take in the view. The skyline of Paris, twinkling lights and old architecture. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower shoots with swindling height up to the sky, touching the clouds.

John stands close, leaned over the railing and looking down into the black, swirling water. His longish hair is whipping in the wind. He looks almost like a child, testing the limits. Paul gets a vision of him toppling over and crashing into the Seine, it makes him laugh. The image of John looking like a drowned cat, emerging from the waters with a sour expression on his face. 

“You’re not over spending money on me?” Paul asks. He backs away to get an overarching picture of the scene. Paris and John. John who lands on the ground once again and turns to look at him. Lit up by the city’s artificial light. Paul’d like to commit this to memory. The view, the atmosphere, the feeling. Like a bird in the sky, caught in a lovely breeze. Floating on freedom. It might take them anywhere. They could travel across land and sea, Paul and John against the world. 

“Not yet, but I might just let you starve tomorrow.”

“You love me too much.”

“You’re not that special, Macca.” But Paul feels John is contradicting himself. With the way he looks, the way he sounds, the way he’d brought Paul here instead of Cyn or any other mate.

Looking for a place to go, they continue their walk. Down big, bustling boulevards. Then loosing themselves in a labyrinth of narrow back alleys. The heavy stench of garbage in the air, rotting, moist waste left out in the cold and the sound of distant music. They’re lured into a dark, intimate club by the mellow tones of an electric guitar.

There’s barely enough room to make way between round tables and rickety chairs. Paul keeps his hand between John’s shoulder blades, gripping the leather of his jacket when the crowd gets too thick to make sure they don’t lose each other. They join the thirsty people surrounding the bar, waiting for a drink. 

“Beer?” John shouts over the cacophony of music and chattering voices.

“Beer!” Paul shouts back. Standing on his tippy toes he gets a clear view of the blues band over the crowd. A drummer, playing a steady but laidback beat. A bassist, hat drawn low over his eyes, swaying to the never ending jam. A guitarist travelling up and down the neck of his instrument. The pianoman, breathing into a microphone. American, it seems. With his twangy vocal, low and smooth and blue, so blue.

That’s the thing with the blues. Simple yet so deep. A never ending travel downtown. Every block looks the same, every street. And with the repetition it’s easy to lose yourself in a trance, lose yourself in the music. The words, the wail, the struggle. A universal sadness.

John awakes him from his lull by pressing a glass into his hand. Cold and humid against his palm.

“Thanks!” Paul says. He’s sure John can’t hear him, cannot even read the gratitude on his lips since he’s got his back turned, already on his way to find a seat. Two empty chairs proves to be hard to find. It’s Saturday after all, and everybody want to come alive after a week of hard work. Find a sliver of happiness, something worthwhile in the night. Wash away the mundane with a pint and some escapism.

It’s finally the weekend, but Paul feels like it has been Saturday ever since he had arrived in France. No obligations, only plain, old fun. Doing what they please whenever, spending the 100 pounds John’s aunt had gifted on whatever.

One of their first day’s in the city, they’d bumped into Jürgen Vollmer of Hamburg, by chance. An old mate in a foreign town. The last remaining traces of the wish to see Spain had then disappeared. And so they’d stayed. Jürgen guiding them around, showing the arts and the fashions of France.

Paul and John fancy themselves real artists now, it’s impossible not to, Paris sparks the creative mind. They’d cut their hair like Jürgen’s to really cement that. Paul thinks John looks great with his hair combed forward, softer and kinder somehow. He looks like the man he is, somebody capable of greatness, somebody who can deliver the sweetest lyrics even with his harsh tone.

This day is Saturday for real and this real Saturday it’s just the two of them. John and Paul. Paul can’t help but prefer it that way.

In the corner, right by the door to the gents’, the finally find a place to settle down. The table is already occupied by three young girls, probably around the same age as themselves. Lovely ladies, delightfully French.

John has already planted his arse on a chair, but Paul still feels the need to ask:

“Are these seats taken? You mind if we sit?” It’s obvious none of the girls understand him, not in the verbal sense anyway, but as he points to himself and then the chair, the blonde one smiles and nods, so he sits down next to John.

Paul sips, all froth, no drink and listens as the 10 minute jam tumbles into the next one. Beside him, John cuts straight to the chase.

“You speak any English, girls?” He leans across the table. All his charm is of a mischievous kind, he doesn’t do roundabouts, goes straight for the sexual. The cocking of an eyebrow and the sly smile of a man about to get laid. Sometimes that confidence is beneficial, sometimes it makes a fool of him. But even so, there’s never a trace of careful sweetness, never a tentative first step.

“Anglais? Non.” One of them answers. She’s got a round face, a turtleneck, hair long and flowing over her shoulders.

“Well…” John looks to Paul with glinting eyes. “You know what they say? Love transcends language. And don’t I like a challenge.”

“Love is it?” Paul says with a smile.

“Love till the morning comes.”

“Ah.” He pulls out two ciggies, lights them and hands one of them to John. “You think whoever you pull won’t mind me watching? We still only have one room and one bed, don’t you forget.”

“You can wait outside.” John takes a drag.

“And what a mate you are.” Paul says around a mouthful of smoke. John makes a face, then turns back towards the ladies. Or lady, just the one. He starts with his first choice of the bunch, who he deems to be the prettiest, which of course is the blonde.

“What’s your name?” He asks. She seems bewildered. “Name?” John repeats. “John.” He points to himself. “You?”

“Oh.” She says then, features relaxing into a momentary clarity. “Camille.”

“Muy… belle.” Is John’s attempt at a compliment. The girls exchange looks, then starts giggling madly.

“Doing a real good job.” Paul snorts. He leans back in his chair, gulps his beer. But John doesn’t let the stumbling start get his spirits down. A meandering conversation begins, misunderstanding follows. Rejection is the inevitable last stop.

“Connard!” The blonde one, Camille, shouts before the three girls disappears into the crowd, leaving as much distance between themselves and the two English boys as possible. Maybe finding another corner in which to listen to the music undisturbed, maybe leaving all together.

“Yeah, fuck you too!” John shouts back. “What did I say?” He asks Paul.

“I don’t know. But I guess not only love transcends language but maybe idiocy as well.”

“That’s it, you’re not getting any food tomorrow and that’s final.”

But John doesn’t let the rejection get him down, usually he’d be grumpy and testy all night, lest he find another skirt to pull, a girl to successfully get into bed with. Tonight he’s cheerful despite that. He jokes and laughs as they finish their beers. He sings along to the blues, not the actual lyrics, but bizarre, Lennonesque gibberish that makes Paul break into fits of giggles and join in.

Paris has proved to be as wonderful as its made out to be, Paul thinks as they leave, going back to their tiny shared hotel room. Just a dreamy place, a small sliver of heaven on earth. The knowledge that they’ll have to return home soon is a heavy one. It shouldn’t be so melodramatic, all holidays do come to an end eventually. But its more bittersweet this time. Bitter, the return to the same old same old, but sweet, because there’s no place like home.

No place like home. But still, as they walk side by side through the city, Paul finds he does not miss Liverpool in the slightest.

“And to think, we never got lucky a single time in the city of love.” John says as they pass another cute little café. This street seems like an endless string of them.

“Ironic is the word.”

“Bloody pathetic.”

“At least we have each other.” Paul says.

“Yeah. At least I have you to warm my bed at night.”

“And I have you to keep me fed and entertained.”

“I have a pretty face to spoil.”

“And I have a useless lad to nag.”

“God, we’re practically married.”

“That’s what George says.”

Their hotel is situated in the outskirts of the city. A cheep, ugly little place with a floral theme like a red thread through interior. A place to rest ones head and not much more. There’s a bed, pushed into the corner, , there’s an armchair and there’s an old chest of drawers. There’s a toilet and a sink with no walls to separate it from the sleeping area. No privacy to be found. But they make do, they’ve lived through Hamburg together after all.

Closing the door, locking the world away, they strip down to their undies and brush their teeth. Side by side at the sink. All foamy smiles and elbows knocking together.

They wash the suds away, take turns on the toilet. Then Paul turns the lights off and they crawl beneath the covers. Shivering in the cold. The heating in this place is either useless or non-existant. Paul only knows for sure that it’s freezing. So he huddles close to John, seeking the warmth of his body, somewhere to thaw his icy toes and fingers.

“Jeez, Paul!” John exclaims, twitching at the unpleasant sensation of Paul’s cold limbs against his.

“Deal with it.” Paul says, laying his hand flat to John’s stomach, just to torture him a little. He can feel the way John’s muscles twitch under his fingers, wanting nothing more than to put some distance between them, keep his warmth to himself.

“Fuck…”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah.” Paul’s laughter is soft and low in the quiet.

Soon the heat from their bodies build a better climate under the sheets, a nice warmth fit for sleep and so they finally relax. Settle down. Paul closes his eyes and listens to the small sounds that makes up the silence. The creaking of the old building, shifting on its foundation. Their mingling breaths, evening out and going deeper with every passing minute. The distant sound of traffic outside. Someone, somewhere, who flushes a toilet. The pipes gurgle. And Paul, slowly but surely, begins falling asleep.

His eyes fall closed, he finds a darkness behind his lids, void of any fear or any worry. Skin to skin, he feels John sneak and arm around him, it only comforts him further. Sinking deeper into the mattress.

Right on the brink of drifting off, a final feeling washes over him. A shy press of lips to the corner of his mouth. A kiss so sweet, a kiss goodnight. A kiss to warm him until summertime. Just a whisper of a touch against his lips.

The next day as they share a croissant for breakfast he wonders if he maybe dreamt it. It had seemed like a dreamy kiss. Unreal, too precious to be of this world. Never had he been kissed like that before, never had he felt such… such…. He can’t even describe it. And as he watches John, crumbles around his mouth, eyes squinting against the morning sun, the feeling that it had been a dream only increases.

John would never kiss him like that. Would he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really just guessing how it might be to visit these cities lol, I've never been. But the next chapter takes place in the city where I live so I might just get that one a bit more right. Won't have to rely on google maps, lolll. I need to stop with the lols, but you know when you start saying something ironically and then you just can't stop? Lol is a part of me now. :(((


	4. Puss

**Stockholm, 1963**

After breakfast they cram into the car. A tight fit for a long ride. Going here and going there, the backseat is beginning to feel like their natural habitat. They're always on their way. 

Sweden is cold and dark. Colder and darker than Britain. The snow lies thick on the ground, a shroud of white that brightens the day just a little. The forecast says there’ll be another downpour by midday. Perhaps, as they travel east, they can avoid the worst of it.

Paul is packed like a sardine, Ringo pressing against his right and the car door pressing against his left. The friction, rubbing shoulder to shoulder, makes the temperature rise. With the warmth, comes the tiredness. It sneaks back into his system.

Paul hadn’t slept well. Not even a full hour undisturbed. He’d doze only to jolt upright a moment later. Disoriented and dizzy. As the telephone had rung, 6 o’clock sharp, for their ordered wake up call, he’d felt as if he’d barely slept at all.

He leans his heavy head against the cool glass of the window. Hoping for some shut eye, just a little nap to get him through the day. But peace is nowhere to be found.

The others are talking. Voices too loud. The sound turns distorted and sharp in Paul’s ears.

“She asked me to bring the cornflakes to the bathroom and…” he can only snap up fragments of conversations, like a radio hovering between stations. Between the words, a violent fuzz, like waves crashing on the beach. It might be the sound of his own blood, pumping through his veins, echoing through his head.

He wishes he could turn it off, the switch of a dial, the click of a button. He wishes he could lie down in a dark, secluded corner and have a proper rest. A wish he is not granted, stuck in a noisy car on the way from Karlstad to Stockholm.

It might be the lack of sunlight. It might be an oncoming bout of sickness, brought on by the chill. It might be all the travelling, a busy year finally catching up on him. Paul likes keeping his schedule full, he isn’t easily stressed, he functions well on the bare minimum, yet today, everything seems just a bit much.

He sighs, shifts in his seat. Too uncomfortable. He gives up and opens his eyes. Looks out to the passing Swedish landscape. An endless stretch of dark green. The forests are compact and menacing here. Anything could hide in the shadows, any kind of creature.

“…and so I did! She nearly crashed the damned car, she was so baffled.” John says. George laughs, then coughs. Smokey and hoarse. Paul sighs yet again.

“Alright?” Ringo nudges him with his elbow. Paul forces a smile onto his face and nods.

“Just tired.” He says. “Didn’t sleep much.”

“Oh. You should try to get some rest while we’re still in the car then.” Ringo says, sounding kind and sympathetic, as he always does. It grinds Paul’s gears. _“I am trying for gods sake!”_ He’d like to say.

“Yes.” He says instead. He tries getting comfortable again. But it’s no use.

Four long hours later, they roll through the city borders, into Stockholm. Grey and dull. It might’ve been a pretty town beneath a summer sun, built upon a cluster of small islands, a low skyline, the sea lapping at its feet, but in the midst of late fall, it’s just drab-looking. The snow is not crisp or white, it has melted into dirty slush under the wheels of the early afternoon traffic. And dark clouds hang like impending doom over the rooftops. Just so dull. All of Paul’s usual optimism has drained out of him, has surrendered to the bitter weariness that had only grown during the car ride.

In the heart of the city they step out into the biting cold. Mal and Neil drive away to leave their luggage at the hotel, Brian takes them to lunch. He takes them to a posh restaurant. Warmly lit little place with wood panelled walls and luscious greenery in pots. They’re seated in a corner.

“It’s all just fish.” Ringo says sadly as they receive their menus. “Fish and fish and oh, more fish.”

“And no chips to be seen.” George rests his elbow on the table.

“No chips? Now _that’s_ fishy.” John fingers the silverware. Brain looks slightly fed up with the attitude. If Paul were in a better mood he might’ve tried lightening the atmosphere, but as it is, he can hardly seem to give a crap. He grips his cold glass of water instead and gulps down half of it in one go. When a waiter comes to take their orders, he just points noncommittally to the first best thing. Whatever may be, he thinks, trying to breathe through his impatience. He just needs to get through this lunch, then he can go to the hotel and lie down before the show tonight.

Unsurprisingly, when Paul’s plate arrives, it arrives full of fish. Raw, pink salmon, potatoes and an abundance of dill. It tastes of smoke and sea, and all together it’s not a bad meal. Which shouldn’t be a surprise since the restaurant is a fancy one and the chefs has probably had years of training. Some things just doesn’t look appetising on a page, but that doesn’t mean it won’t taste nice. Still he can’t manage to finish his food. The fatigue is making him nauseous, he simply has no appetite.

“…so I will give him a call in the morning and tell him. It’s important after all.” Brian says. John seems agreeing. Paul hums just to give the impression he’s listening. Not even hearing the word ‘important’ can make him care today.

Finally after what seems like hours, they pay for themselves and leave, driving towards the hotel. It’s not a particularly beautiful building, yet it looks like heaven to Paul. His salvation.

They have two rooms on the fifth floor. Paul and John in one, George and Ringo in the other. Paul barely says his “see you’s” before entering and falling on top of the covers, crumpling the white sheets. Lying down, relaxing his aching muscles, the pain hits him tenfold. Throbbing temples, throbbing back, throbbing feet. He groans loudly, it comes out muffled, soft cotton swallowing the sound. May he finally just fall asleep! May he sleep and sleep and be awoken right before the concert, may someone pick him up and dump him on stage, pull his limbs with marionette strings, play his bass for him, then pick him up once again and lay him back on this bed.

Face pressed to the pillow. All light shut out, it’s blissfully dark. The room is filled with small sounds, comforting sounds, soft sounds. John shuffling around, humming to himself. Paul is fading fast, sinking into the mattress.

John is doing god knows what. He wouldn’t be unpacking, not when they’re leaving again the very next day. Maybe he’s searching for something in one of his bags. A notebook or perhaps a novel he is currently reading. Some dusty, old hardback.

Paul can picture him in his head, ordinary John doing ordinary things on the back of his lids. Hands working the clasps, digging through the suitcase. A picture so wonderfully mundane, it helps Paul’s tired mind. He’s right on the edge of sleep. Just about to tip over when…

The resounding disharmony of an out of tune guitar, knocking against a hard surface, making the open strings vibrate and echo through the hollow body. God no… the other bed creaks as John sits down.

Fideling with the tuning, the E-string soars up to the right pitch. Same goes for A and D and G. But that damned B. It sounds persistently sour. Paul can hear it, it sounds too low. Then it’s too high. Then it’s low again. John turns the peg this way and that way and settles for something almost correct but not quite. He begins a melody, something soft and melodic that Paul hasn’t heard before. And maybe an untrained ear would enjoy it, but all Paul can think of is that slight, slight disharmony on the B-string and it’s driving him crazy.

Then John sings. First a soft murmur of uncertain words. Then louder and louder, with more confidence. Nice words for a nice song that might just go on their next LP. But John does as John is and he veers quickly to the raucous and silly. Something loud and obnoxious. And Paul reaches his breaking point. He shoots up to a sitting position, bracing himself on his arms.

“For fucks sake, John! Would you quit that damned noise?!” He snaps.

John grits his teeth, narrows his eyes, tightens his grip around the neck of his instrument. Whitening knuckles.

Snapping at John is never a good idea. He doesn’t take well to anger, even justified such. He builds his walls, fires back, holds his grudges for the rest of the day, or, if you’re unlucky, the rest of the week.

“Oh. Did I disturb your beauty sleep with my _noise_?” He asks, clearly offended by the aversion displayed towards his music. “Is precious little princess tired? Can’t have that can we?”

“Just… forget it.” Paul says. He’s doesn’t have the energy for this. He falls back to the bed. John gets up, his boots managing to sound loud and furious even against the ugly carpeting. But none the louder than the sound of the door slamming shut after him. It shakes on its hinges, a tidal wave of belligerence rips through the walls. Echoes inside Paul’s head. The pain pushes against the globes of his eyes. Is he stupid or what? Where did his patience run off to?

The hours pass, trapped with his annoyance and his regret, its impossible to fall asleep. If John could’ve just been understanding for once. If Paul could’ve just asked him nicely to keep quiet, explain his state of being, he’d be getting the peace he so needed right now. 

Paul changes his shirt before leaving for the evening. A white, collared shirt, identical to the one he’d been wearing before but less wrinkled and better smelling. He washes his face in the sink, tries to blink his drooping eyes open.

He runs into George and Ringo in the corridor.

“Where’s John?” George asks, chewing on a piece of bread.

“Dunno.” Paul mutters.

“Lover’s quarrel?” Paul dislikes the smirk on George’s face with a passion. He pushes past him without an answer, leads the way to the lift.

“Somebody’s pissy.” He hears George say behind him.

“He’s probably just tired.” Ringo defends. Good old Ringo, the only _nice_ one of the bunch.

John is downstairs in the foyer with Brian, Mal and Neil. He makes a point of avoiding Paul all together as they make their way back into that wretched car.

“Excuse me for saying so, but you look like quite the wreck, Paul.” Brian says, brows furrowed. The car starts moving, veering through the busy streets.

“Just a headache.” Paul assures. “It’ll be fine.”

“I’ll find you some pain killers. Won’t do good for you to suffer through the shows.”

“That’s nice of you, thank you.” Paul says earnestly.

John snorts next him. Something said was funny apparently. Paul glowers, he wants to glower at John, but instead he glowers out the window. He does so for all the remaining 15 minutes of the ride.

Soon they arrive at Kungliga Tennishallen, their venue for the night where they’ll be playing second billing to Joey Dee and The Starliters.

They try to sneak in undetected, going through the backdoor, but avoiding fans is an impossible feat. The girls always find a way to get close, to catch a glimpse or maybe, if they’re lucky, get their albums signed. Most of the time they’re polite. Hysterical, yes, but still polite. Somehow.

“Must be on our way.” Paul says to the cluster of girls. There’s a couple of boys, too, but they’re few and far between. He smiles a smile filled with all the kindness he can muster in this weather, with this pressing tiredness. “You’ll see us in there, don’t worry.”

“Aye, look who cheered right up. A little adoration and idolisation sure can cure any moodiness.” John comments testily.

They’re at it again.” George says, rolling his eyes.

“Thank you, thank you.” Ringo tries distracting the people from the crackling tension with his baby blues.

“In we go.” Brian says sternly. And in they go.

They spend the following hour in the changing rooms, tuning up, playing through a couple of songs. The usual banter is only provided by George and Ringo. Paul saves his voice for the stage. John grumpily stares at his own fingers on the frets. They don’t look at each other. Not a single glance. Not until the second show of the night.

The pill Brian had slipped him has worked its wonders, dulling his pain, but not chipping away at his exhaustion. He stumbles on stage, towards the mic and towards John as Ringo launches into his rendition of Boys. Only inches apart as they lean in to sing their backing vocals. Its impossible not to look at each other then. John tries, keeping his eyes trained on Paul’s tie instead, or glaring out into the audience. But eventually he gives in.

A flutter of lashes. A soft brown, reflecting the light. There’s no anger left there. John has already moved onto the next stage. Cold indifference. Blank eyes, blank face. But deep inside, there is deep love. Paul knows it hides in there, the affection they share. Something unspoken and fragile. A friendship so strong yet so turbulent. The smallest things can shake the very foundation upon which they’ve built their relationship, but however the boat rocks on the sometimes so violent waves, it will never topple over. They’ll never wreck their ship, they’ll always have each other.

Paul feels himself soften, looking at John in that moment. Is it in his imagination, or is John softening too? Relaxing his features into something forgiving. Or is it merely Paul’s wishful thinking?

They end the night with Long Tall Sally, Paul screaming himself hoarse into the mic. It sucks the last energy from him. After their well synchronised bows, they retreat to the changing rooms, the applause, the cheers ringing in their ears. Paul is surprised he’s still able to stand on his own two feet.

In a daze he goes for a glass of water. Around him, the place is bustling with energy, after show jitters. Talking, talking, talking. Like they’re all back in Hamburg on their third prellie for the night.

“Are you joining us?” Ringo asks when they move outside. He lights his fag, puffing smoke into the cold air.

“What?” Paul says. Joining whom, where, why?

“Joey Dee is having a party.”

“No, I’m not joining you.” Paul is certain of that. He is not going anywhere that isn’t to bed.

“You sure? Could be a lot of fun. The Starliters are a hoot. And the Swedish women… gotta love them.”

“I’m very, very sure.”

“Okay, okay.” Ringo holds his hands up in defeat. “I believe you alright. I have never heard a man more certain in my life. Though I shouldn’t be surprised anyway, you look beat.”

“I’ve heard that enough for one day, thanks.” Paul says grumpily. “Have fun. Shag someone for me, will you?”

“I’ll shag someone for myself only.” Ringo says. “Sorry. Love you though. Sleep tight.”

“Mm… Goodnight.” They part. Ringo walks off to join the Starliters, a smile on his face. Paul stands there, watching them for a short while. Watching him. John in the crowd, laughing with somebody else. A spike of annoyance pierces though his haze of sleep deprivation. An ugly feeling Paul would like to pretend doesn’t exist. Feeling left out, left behind. Something embarrassingly needy. Tearing his gaze away, he gets into the car. A hazy drive, a sluggish journey to the hotel, his room. His and John’s room. Silent and empty. It’s a blessing and a curse.

He loosens his tie, throws it across the room carelessly. Unbuckles his belt, unbuttons his shirt. Falls to bed. He remembers a second too late that he hasn’t brushed his teeth, but now that he is lying down, he refuses to get up. He falls asleep. And then he awakes. The sound of hushed voices, the crumpling of sheets, a broken moan, rousing him. Paul has no idea what the time is or how long he’s slept. He feels better, lighter and less tender. What is left is a sense of dehydration and a dazed confusion from startling awake so suddenly. In the dark. With someone in the room. A voice he doesn’t recognise.

She’s a lithe figure. It’s all he can make out in the dark. She doesn’t have a face, only long, naked legs spread open wide. John is between them. He, too, is faceless, but Paul knows it’s him. He might be stupid with sleep, newly awoken, but he would recognise those hands anywhere. Big and greedy, gripping her thighs. Recognise his hair, soft auburn locks, brushing against her hipbone. Recognise the immaculately ironed trousers, bunched around his ankles.

He appears, mouth wet and glimmering in the moonlight. She pleads with him. He complies, crawls up her body to make a connection. Something hurried and impatient and kind of beautiful. She roams her hands across his back, pulls him close. Desperate for him, for more. Paul can’t help but react to it. His body yearns for a loving as good as that, for a release of tension. But he can only reveal in the second hand pleasure he feels at the sight of John’s rocking hips.

They both get their happy, evident by the quickening pace, the final sounds of passion. Then they slump down into the sheets. Paul closes his eyes. They say nothing to each other.

He needs to piss, he realises. And he needs water. But he doesn’t want to get up. John had obviously thought him to be asleep. The girl would startle, get embarrassed by his presence and consciousness. Paul’d be perceived a pervert. Which he sort of is. Who isn’t? But being called out on it is not something he desires.

Minutes go by. He waits for a respectable time to pass. And how long is that? Half an hour? Time seems so slow when you’re waiting. The pressure is building in his bladder. He just wants to relieve himself and get back to sleep. Still he waits and waits. Until the room feels heavy with their deep breaths, until sleep seems to close in on them, surround them, John and the girl. Then he finally slips out from under the duvet, tip toes across the room.

He closes the bathroom door carefully before turning on the light. It’s harsh on his unprepared eyes. He squints like an old man, stumbles in blindness towards the toilet bowl. Does his business. When he’s done, he flushes, realising too late the noise it would cause. Oh well. What does it matter in the end. If you fuck in the same room as someone else, you’ll just have to deal with the risk of being noticed.

The water runs cold in the sink, refusing to turn a respectable temperature. The pipes must be freezing beneath the snow. He washes his hands, feeling like his fingers might just fall off, but at least the water is refreshing down his throat as he bends down to drink straight from the tap.

He opens the door, ready to creep back into bed, but he comes to an abrupt halt as he bumps into a figure, blocking his path.

“Oh.” He makes a surprised noise. It has already escaped him before he can press the palm of his hand to his mouth to smother the sound.

“Did you enjoy the show?” John asks, voice but a whisper in the air. His eyebrows are raised, there’s a smile on the horizon. It hasn’t yet reached his face.

He’s naked and he does nothing to hide the fact. Paul is used to the sight of his body, still his gaze flutters over John’s form. Winter pale, yet summer smooth.

“Which one?” Paul whispers back, meeting his eyes. He steals that oncoming smile for himself. John wants it back. They go halfsies. Grinning stupidly at each other in the dark. It feels good.

“Do you need to ask?”

“I guess not.” Paul glances towards the bed. She’s gone.

“Why are we whispering?” he looks back to John.

“I don’t know. Why are we?“ John shrugs.

“Just for fun I guess.” Paul says in his normal speaking voice, too loud for the quiet. 

John inches just a little closer, a twitch to the corner of his mouth. The joy Paul loves to see. Loves to feel. The special, giddy sort of joy he doesn’t feel with anyone else.

Paul gets the impulse to kiss John.

He doesn’t feel alarm at the thought. The McCartney clan may be stingy when it comes to emotional support, madness, sadness and anger are strictly behind-closed-doors-stuff, things to deal with on your own, not burden others with. But they are generous when it comes to love. Paul has grown up with kisses and hugs, the easy touch of an affectionate family. So kissing John, kissing him seriously, not as a joke, doesn’t seem too weird of a thought. The Beatles are all family after all.

He grabs John by the neck, presses his lips to his. Just for a short instance, a no nonsense kind of kiss.

It’s not quite like kissing your granny hello, Paul finds. John’s lips are wet and rubbed raw, they taste like the unknown girl. Like her skin, like her desire, like her sex. The skin of his naked thighs brushing against Paul’s. What was meant to be innocent and friendly, feels nothing like it in practise.

He pulls away from John, a weird heat pressing against his cheeks.

“What was that for?” John looks glassy eyed, taken aback. Paul clears his throat.

“Felt like it.” He shrugs. Better pretend there’d been nothing peculiar about the whole thing. Acknowledging the weirdness would only make it grow.

“Oh…” John blinks. Paul is afraid he might’ve overstepped some kind of boundary. “Okay.” But John doesn’t look angry with him. Only a bit confused. Paul bites his lip, unsure of what to say. Something has to be said, they can’t stay in the silence until sunrise. So Paul opens his mouth.

“Well…” he says. “Goodnight then.”

“Yeah.” John answers.

They unfreeze at the same time, moving towards their respective beds. Paul pulls the covers to his chin. He feels odd. Doesn’t know what to do about it. So he does nothing.

“Goodnight.” John says, through the thick silence. A silence that follows them into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paul just wants to kiss John, no homo! just bros being bros u kno?


	5. Peck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually kind of happy with this chapter? The pacing might be a little off in places, but otherwise I think it's okay and that is more praise than I usually give myself hahah.

**Key West, Florida, 1964**

Miles away, Hurricane Dora rips through the east coast of Florida. She’s big and powerful, having only grown and grown on her way across the Atlantic, but here, there is no trace of her. The palm trees only sway softly in a mild, warm breeze. The sun is beating down, hot and ruthless despite September.

Paul thinks of England where the cold would have already set in. Regular old rain. No tropical storms, only light drizzles. No red, hot sun, just the occasional ray of light filtering through the clouds.

This is summer. Summer all year around. A whole ‘nother world to live in. He likes it, thus far. Likes tanning his legs, likes sipping the various drinks the hotel bar has to offer, he likes it, but it’s a little too nice. Nice on the verge of boring. There’s not much to do, not much to see, but there is plenty to drink.

Had things gone according to plan, had the storm not rolled in with the waves causing their plane to re-route, they would’ve been in Jacksonville now. They would’ve been playing the gator bowl tomorrow. But as it is, they’ve touched down safe and sound in Key West, waiting for the weather to pass at a sunny resort.

He’s on his fourth Tom Collins and his second platter of fruit-skewers for the day. Ripe oranges, like sunlight on his tongue. Sweet grapes and tangy strawberries. The fruit juice trickle down his chin, he darts out his tongue to catch the drops. He feels dizzy in the afternoon sun, feels light, wading his fingers through the pool water.

George’d called him a fruit. He and the other two sip their whiskeys and laugh at Paul. But he catches John sneaking a taste, popping a grape into his mouth. And so Ringo has to sneak a taste. And so George has to sneak a taste.

“I’m not the only fruit, I see.” Paul says, sucking at his straw, watching the boys lounge in the turquoise water. They should head inside soon if they don’t want to get burned under the Florida sun. How would it look, four beet red Beatles on stage? Like a band of lobsters. He laughs out loud, puts his drink down and rests his head.

“Someone’s a bit drunk.” John rests his arms on the pools edge, squinting at Paul. They’re eye to eye, Paul lying down on the stone and John poking his head through the water surface.

“Pfft, I’m not.” Paul says, making a disregarding gesture with his hand. He does speak with his hands a lot when he is intoxicated.

“Awh, you’re cute when you lie.” John grins, reaching with his wet hand to pinch at Paul’s cheek. Paul swats him away, like he’s a mosquito or a fly.

“Where’s your Irish tolerance!” George shouts from the corner of the pool, submerged in shadows. “Your ancestors are rolling in their graves, you’re a disgrace!”

“Hey! Respect your elders!” Paul shouts back. Ringo, dipping his feet, snaps a photo with his pentax.

“No good trying to teach that boy a thing.” John says. “He hasn’t got a decent bone in his body.”

“All my bones are decent.” George protests, fumbling with his hand for his glass of amber liquor, waiting on the edge, next to the ladder.

“All but one, I think.” Ringo says.

“I’d argue even my cock is decent.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard the girls say. They think it’s far from it.” Everybody laughs but George.

“God.” Paul groans, feeling breathless he rests his cheek to the ground.

“Don’t go throwing up on us, son.” John warns.

“Just tired. M’not gonna throw up.” No, he doesn’t feel ill yet, only lightheaded.

“You’re such a lightweight.”

“No, I’ve just had more than you guys.”

“Well! Let’s change that, then!” John heaves himself up, drips water all over the poolside and all over Paul who shrieks at the sudden drizzle. “Come on! We’re heading inside, we’re breaking out the big guns.”

“We are?” Ringo asks.

“Apparently.”

They walk the hot tiles to the Beatle bungalow, their little home for the night, leaving a trail of wet footsteps behind. Paul stumbles and grumbles all the way inside, his Tom Collins in his hand. John wanders out of sight, to the bedroom and back, returning with two bottles of liquor, one in each hand.

“We’re finishing these tonight.” He says.

“Then we better get started.” Ringo plops down on the floor, leaning his back against the sofa and inevitably leaving a wet spot the shape of his arse on the carpet. Paul follows suit.

What is it you have for us this evening, good sir?” He asks, eyeing the spirits.

“American shite. Some whiskey, some rum.” John corks open one bottle after the other.

“Love that brand. American shite. Just love ‘em.”

“Good quality liquor.” George agrees. John takes a swig here and a swig there, makes a face. Must be bad, to make that man flinch.

“Give us.” Ringo says, making grabby hands. So they pass it around, steadily working on next day’s hang over, steadily emptying the bottle.

“This tastes like gasoline.” George still downs a gulp or two without a trace of disgust on his face.

“Get’s the job done.” John says. “Stop your whining.”

“I’m still bored.” Paul complains.

“Why are you contributing to the negativity? The Paul I know is endlessly and annoyingly happy, always sweet, a baby faced angel really, he’s gods gift to man and everybody’s favourite little…”

“Oh, keep your bleeding mouth shut, Lennon.”

“Are you cross with me? You want to fight?”

“Yes, I do. You sound really condescending and I don’t appreciate it..”

“Are you saying you don’t like my tone?”

“That’s exactly it, young man!”

“Well, sorry then, dad.”

“God, let’s stop this blabbering.” George says. “What about a card of games?”

“Card of games?” Ringo snorts a laugh. 

“Yes, let’s card the games and hand a play.” John mocks.

“I feel like I’m having a stroke.” Paul says.

George goes to fetch his deck of cards and the infamous brown paper bag, courtesy of one Brian Epstein, certainly a _very_ inconspicuous vessel for cash. He shuffles and deals. Paul gets a lousy hand. He groans aloud before remembering about subtlety and its important role in poker. He sure is bad at this when he’s drunk.

He looks up and catches sight of John, hiding a knowing grin behind his own hand, glittering eyes peaking out from over the top. Paul pouts at him. He has already lost this round, might as well fold.

George folds too. But Ringo and John has steely determination in their eyes. Betting a fiver each. American currency none of them are quite sure about, how much it’s worth and such. It’s a hard thing to keep track of when Brian takes care of most things for them, accommodations and travels and what not.

Ringo wins the first round. George the second. They precede to call and raise and fold themselves into evening. Every game is more confused than the last, with absurd amounts of cash on the line, John being the main offender when it comes to the ballsy betting. It has payed off, he’s hoarding bills and coins, looking like Smaug from the hobbit.

“All that money better be right back in the bag by tomorrow.” George grumbles under his breath, Paul who sits next to him, the only one able to hear it. “This is ridiculous.”

What finally ends their little tournament is a shouting match.

“You cheated, I know you did!”

“Did not!”

“I saw you switch a card!”

“I was scratching my leg!”

“You’re a crap lier, Harrison!”

“And you’re paranoid, Lennon!”

“Take that back!”

“Lads, lads, lads.” Ringo tries calming the situation. “Maybe we should just turn in for the night.”

“Fine. Just go. See if I care.”

“Obviously you do.”

“Shut it!”

“I don’t feel so good.” Paul says to himself, face planted against the carpet. His stomach is rolling and twisting, mouth already salivating in preparation for a good vomiting.

“I just don’t appreciate being falsely accused of anything.” George sounds calmer now, still irritated, but calm. Paul quickly gets to his feet. He leaves the sound of pointless, drunken arguing behind and hurries to the bathroom, barely makes it in time.

Knees knocking against the hard tiles of the floor, he leans over the bowl and spews out hours of drinks and food. There’s the fruit he’d snacked on, there’s the meat he had for lunch. The stench of stomach acid and alcohol makes him retch all over again. His whole body heaves, eyes tearing up and breath coming out fast and irregular.

“I’m never drinking again.” He promises himself, voice echoing between the walls. It’s a lie he believes for the moment.

Feeling slightly better, he stands up, flushes and goes to wash the bad taste out of his mouth. Hotel mouthwash does the job alright, but nothing can hide his blotchy face and his blood shoot eyes.

When he returns to the room, only John is left. He’s lying on the couch, balancing the bottle of rum on his chest.

“Why does everybody leave me?” He asks, staring up into the ceiling.

“God, you’re morose all of a sudden.” Paul slumps into the armchair, sighing heavily. He needs a breather after that, he still got the shakes, the sweats. Violent shivers overtaking him, it takes a while until he returns to here and now and when he does he is met with a strong smell of sadness. He looks to John. John who remains lying on the couch, fingers around his bottle like its a life-line.

“What’s going on there, mate?” The words come out a slur. His tongue isn’t working properly, it’s heavy and useless in his mouth.

“I think I’m going crazy.” John murmurs.

“You’re just drunk.” Maybe Paul is reassuring himself, instead of John. John is just drunk. John gets sad when he’s drunk. Gets mad when he’s drunk. Get’s horny and happy and weirdly insightful when he’s drunk. He gets physical, he gets down and dirty, off his rockers. When he is drunk.

“I’m haunted by misery, it’s driving me fucking mad.” John says. Paul furrows his brow. Why this, why now? Had the stupid tiff with George awakened something deeper within John?

“What do you mean?” Paul asks. It seems so out of nowhere. Things are good as far as Paul is aware. The success, the money, the girls, the music. They’ve got everything, they’ve got each other.

“Never mind.” John says. Paul can’t see his face from this angle. Only the top of his head, his legs, stretched out on the sofa, feet perched on the armrest.

“You can tell me.” Paul assures. John inhales sharply, like he’d been holding his breath. A quick mouthful of air that gets caught in his throat, never reaching his lungs.

“I thought you’d get it.” He whispers. The words twist around Paul’s heart, tight, tight. Such a pain. He wants nothing more than to understand. Everything, all the time, every atom that makes up this man, his John. But he doesn’t. John is a mystery. Paul is left without a clue.

“Maybe I would, if you tried explaining.” He tries. John shakes his head, a rustling sound of hair against fabric. “Come on, John. Talk to me.”

“Just leave it. Paul.” John says, between gritted teeth. Paul holds back a frustrated sigh. He doesn’t want the night to lead them down this path. Through a raging storm of resentment. Like Hurricane Dora, ripping through Florida, ripping through their relationship. Paul wants the sun to stay, shine on them forever. He wants smiles and blue skies and music until the world ends.

A beat of silence. Then John starts taking anyway, like he’d changed his mind on a whim. “I destroy everything, is the thing.” Paul decides not to push, waits, bated breath. John wants to open the floodgates, he just can’t if he’s under pressure. “It’s ingrained in me, some sort of curse.” John continues. “I’m no good, I’m so unlovable everybody leaves, everybody dies.”

He takes a swig from the bottle. Paul wants to tell him that it’s fundamentally untrue. Everybody loves John. _Paul_ loves John so much, so much it hurts him sometimes. A deep, deep feeling. He can’t imagine a world without him, how boring it would be. Paul is so goddamn lucky to have met John, that he gets to make music with him, experience his talent and excellence up close. Everybody loves John. Even when he’s difficult and out of line. Mimi, Cyn, George, Ringo, Brian, baby Julian, the list goes on and on.

But Paul still keeps quiet.

“Why can’t I just shut the fuck up? I get angry and I shout and I push people away. I really am a grade A bastard. Nobody should put up with me. Sometimes I wonder… am I a cunt because of everything that has happened? Or did it happen simply because I’ve always been a cunt? Was that why dad left? Because I was born a miserable bastard.”

“No.” Paul says. Finally opening his mouth. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Wasn’t it? I can’t help but feel I deserved it. All of it. Dad, mum, uncle George, Stu.”

“You didn’t. You don’t.”

“How do you know?”

“If you deserved all of that, then I deserved losing my mother, too.” Paul says. She appears before him. Mary, leaned over the sink in the kitchen. Mary taking care of the scrape on his knee after he had taken a fall on his bike. Her scent and her warm embrace. Paul feels a stinging burn in his eyes. Her memory threatening to overwhelm him. “And I don’t want to believe that.”

“It’s different.” John says.

“It isn’t.” Paul shakes his head though the knows John can’t see it. “Bad things happen. They happen to everybody. Some experience more crap than others, it’s circumstance. We just have to live with it, we have to believe in something good and keep moving forward.”

“I can’t.” John sniffles. He puts the bottle on the table to wipe his face. Spirits and tears, a common combination for an artist. Spirits and tears, they meet at the hands of John. Wet fingers on a dry and sunny evening. A lovely orange glow, shining though the windows.

“We have to remember the good. That’s what I try to do. I guess I’d rather just forget the bad parts. Her sickness. Her death.” John cries so Paul cries. He let’s himself, it’s easy when under the influence. “I remember how warm she was, how reassuring. The best mother one could ever ask for.”

“Mine was the worst.” John says, voice broken. “She didn’t even want me.”

“She did.” Paul says. “I remember how she’d light up when we’d turn up at her doorstep. She wouldn’t even nag us about skiving off school.”

“Yeah….” But John sounds unsure.

“She’d make us tea and jam butties and listen to us play all day. She wasn’t boring like the other adults.”

“She was wild. I guess that’s were I got it from.”

“Yes. You’re just as lovely as she was.” Paul says. John snorts a laugh, wet with tears.

“No need to go sappy on me, McCartney.”

“Can’t help it, I am a sap I suppose. You never fail to tell me.”

“Well, you can save it for the pretty girls. I hear they like that sort of thing.”

“Yeah.” Paul smiles, leans further back into the chair. Weird, the moment had been. But he’s glad for his tears, they’ve been kept inside all of his life. He’s glad for John’s tears. That he’d let Paul see them. Trusted him enough.

“What would you do, if you could spend just one more day with her?” John asks. Paul doesn’t need to think long about it. He had thought about it a lot, especially in the early stages of the grieving process. Imagining he could bring her back and what they’d might talk about. In his teens, all he’d wanted to do was to apologise to her. For being such a lousy son, for mouthing off, for disobeying her, for taking her for granted. He’d always expected her to be there with reassurance and love. Cleaning and cooking and comforting him. Cycling off to work each morning in her pristine, ironed nurses outfit. But as he’s grown older, he has realised she wouldn’t want that from him. Apologies.

“I’d hug her of course. Would probably have a hard time letting her go.” His tears return full force. Rivulets down his cheeks. If only he could bring her back. If only. “I’d play her my music and tell her about my life. I’d like to think she’d be proud of me, even if she’d hoped I picked a different path, something more conventional. And I’d ask her… if she’s happy, if she feels peace. Wherever she is now.”

“I wouldn’t know what to do. I never know what to do.” John says. Paul catches a movement from the corner of his eye. He turns his head. He feels sluggish and slow and the world turns blurry for a second. When he regains focus he sees Ringo. Wide eyed, sneaky Ringo, trying to pass undetected. They look at each other. Paul wipes his face hurriedly and forces a smile in place. God, what has Ringo stumbled upon? Some weird sob fest. Something definitely not fit for two Scouse lads.

 _“You alright?”_ Ringo mouths, as to not catch John’s attention.

“ _It’s fine.”_ Paul mouths back. Ringo nods, takes his word for it, continues his quest. Careful steps across the living room floor to where he’d left his camera.

“I never once told her… that I loved her. I’d like for her to know, but I think I’d just freeze if I had the opportunity.” John says. Paul winces. It’s too raw. Too important. He doesn’t want Ringo hearing it, wouldn’t want anyone to hear it but himself. This is strictly John and Paul business.

So when Ringo disappears back into his and George’s room, throwing an equally terrified, equally apologetic glance over his shoulder, Paul rises to his feet and walks over to John.

“Come. Let’s go to our room.” He says. John looks up at him, eyes glimmering, tears clinging to his lashes. Lips wet and shiny with sorrow and white rum.

“Okay.” He complies. Easy and reasonable with drink. He sits up, grabs at Paul to get to his feet. Gathering enough balance, composure and the bottle before stumbling towards the bedroom. Cradling the alcohol in his arms like it’s a baby.

Paul closes the door behind them, ensuring their privacy. John falls to bed. Paul’s bed but Paul doesn’t mind. He sits down next to John’s lying form. John hands him the bottle.

“Thanks.” Paul says, forgetting the promise he made for himself on the bathroom floor just a short while ago. He gulps down the burning liquid, adding fuel to the fire coursing through his veins. The clouds are getting thicker once again. He wants to lie down, so he does. Slumps against the mattress next to John. They breathe together for a while, silence stretching long and thin. Paul almost believes John to be asleep when he suddenly speaks.

“Do you remember when I kissed you?”

There’s no room for misunderstanding. It’s a straightforward question, audibly and clearly spoken. It pierces through Paul’s veil of intoxication, hits him straight in the chest. His heart picks up the pace, a rhythm most frantic and fearful. Why he’s not sure. But it nearly breaks his ribs with its force.

“Which time?” First on Paul’s mind is the kiss he himself had initiated. Only a year ago, in Sweden. That weird kiss they’d never spoken about. Well, they hadn’t discussed any of the few kisses they’d shared over the years. Not until now, it seemed. Now is apparently the time.

“Paris.” John whispers. Paul shifts to look at him. A stubborn profile, he’s refusing to meet his eyes. John is self-conscious, Paul thinks. _He’s scared, just like me._ And he thinks of Paris. About that blissful week.

He doesn’t remember a kiss. Paris had been kissless. There had only been laughter and joy, the occasional flirt, the chase of a skirt, but Paul had smooched neither girl nor John that week.

“No.” He says. The answer adds to the tension in the room. An uncomfortable tension Paul can’t quite describe.

“No? No, why would you.” John is beginning the process of shutting himself away again, Paul can see it on his face. But he can’t let that happen, not so soon.

“Refresh my memory.” He begs. He puts the bottle to his mouth, takes another sip. He needs the courage, they’re moving into unfamiliar territory. Then he passes it to John. John drinks, too.

“Why should I? It’s nothing important.” He says. Paul can’t admit defeat, can’t lose this battle. He’s not going to let the night end badly, not after what they’ve shared. So he grabs John by the cheek and forces him to meet his eyes.

“Tell me, John.” John and his set jaw, his tense muscles, his accusing stare, like he’s hurting and has Paul to blame. He melts, little by little, like he finds trust in the way Paul is looking at him. He gives up and gives in.

“I wasn’t sure if you were asleep or awake.” He says quietly. It seems that a sentence so vague shouldn’t jog Paul’s memory like it does, but his brain puts those words into context. A cold October night. John had just turned 21. They’d been to a blues bar. They’d seen a movie. Crammed into a small hotel bed, Paul had been drifting off beside John.

“I thought that was a dream.” He says. He feels breathless, feels dizzier than ever.

“Wasn’t.”John is soft where he is usually rough, warm where he can be so cold. Vulnerable and honest. A flower that only blooms at night time, a flower needing outmost care to thrive. Paul imagines Cynthia must see this John a lot. He’d one time come across a letter John had written, meant for her. Pages and pages filled with outpourings of love and deep anxieties. Well, Paul had only read a couple of sentences before his guilt had gotten the better of him, but he’d seen enough to know, John has a side to him that Paul can’t even begin to understand. Now he sees a glimpse of that man before him. He loves him. And god if that isn’t scary.

“That’s…” Paul tries to focus on John, tries to stay grounded.

“What do you think of that?” John asks.

“I don’t know.”

“You do know.”

“I don’t know, John.”

“Think. It’s easy.” It’s not easy. Not when Paul had been thinking of John as nothing but his best friend for all these years. Not when love was supposed to be simple and beautiful. A man and a woman, marriage and kids, holding hands and kissing in the sun. Not like this. This is ugly and wrong. It’s not easy.

John is waiting for an answer still. Paul wets his lips.

“I guess….” He says. John looks too expectant. Paul doesn’t know how to put it into words. A frustrated noise escapes him, John furrows his brow. Paul doesn’t like that, he brushes his hand up over John’s cheek, across his forehead to smooth out the lines. Subconsciously he inches closer.

John’s breath hitches. His gaze flutters, Paul feels it land on his lips.

It’s hard to say who kisses who. They sort of fall together. An unsure press of lips, a taste of mint and rum and tears. Lingering, wondering. Paul forgets to breathe, freezing to ice at the contact. What is this supposed to be? Kissing has never felt so frightening, so life threatening. John presses closer, Paul tears himself away.

“This is insane.”

“Yeah.” John says. Paul leans away and John follows, pecks him once, twice. Sweet little kisses to the corner of his mouth. Feather light, the caress of his lips against Paul’s. Something longing in the way he touches him, seemingly wanting more, seemingly waiting for Paul to kiss him back, properly and whole heartedly.

Paul is sure his heart is going to burst, it’s an uncomfortable feeling. But he can’t stop John, pushing him away is impossible. Even if he knows the whole thing is doomed from the get go. It’s something dangerous and risky, never meant to last.

“John.” He sighs. He can feel John shiver against him. They breathe each other in, wait each other out. Paul isn’t sure what he should do. He has always wanted to be with John, wanted to be close to him, keep him near. Had he been too stupid all these years to realise it had meant this? Had meant kissing John and kissing him for real? Or is he simply scared that if he rejects John, he’ll lose him forever? John who’d kissed him back in Hamburg, who’d seemed so angry when Paul had perceived it to be for a laugh.

“Was it ever a joke?” Paul asks, lips almost brushing against John’s as he speaks. He looks up to meet his eyes. Dark and deep, they could almost swallow Paul.

“Maybe the first one.” He can feel John smile, can see the creases it leaves around his eyes. It’s such a lovely sight it makes Paul ache for him, trailing his fingers down his jaw, his neck. A caress that leaves him almost embarrassed. It’s too tender, too sweet. A touch that doesn’t fit into the friendship he shares with John. He feels he shouldn’t do this, shouldn’t be allowed it. John should snap and bite, should punch and kick and taunt him for this. But he merely leans into the touch, half lidded eyes, parted lips.

Paul makes a quick decision that doesn’t feel like a decision at all. More like a force pulling him into action. He kisses John, kisses him like he knows what he’s doing, like he isn’t terrified. He kisses him and John blows his fears away. He opens up under his touch, pliant and soft. They’re sure this time. And Paul is amazed. This is his John. He’d always thought of him as that, as his John, but now it takes on a different meaning. His John.

Everything happens oh so quickly then. They move, a tumble across the bed. John ends up half on top of him, sneaking a leg between Paul’s. Fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of Paul’s neck, tugging gently. He kisses him with such adoration. Paul feels his devotion with every touch. They way he trails his lips over his, across his chin, down his throat to his collarbone. Every last bit of sanity leaves Paul’s mind, he can only keep John close, close, impossibly close. Tracing his fingers down the expanse of John’s back, But then John sinks lower and Paul finds himself with his hand in his hair instead.

“Alright?” John asks. Paul had closed his eyes without even noticing. Now he opens them, lifts his head to look. John waiting for permission. Hot breath and eager fingers against the waistband of his swimming trunks. His pupils blown wide.

“Jesus.” Paul’s head falls back against the pillows. “Yeah…” This is insane, truly and utterly insane.

“No, I’m John.” John says with a smile. “People often get us mixed up though, no worries.” Paul laughs.

“I love you, you idiot.” He says, realising too late how the situation might make the words sound. A few seconds of silence passes, agonisingly slow, Paul feels he might have messed everything up, taken things too far. His heart sinks into his stomach, almost reaches the bottom. But then John simply says a “yeah, yeah, sure”, waving the confession away before getting down to business. Dragging the swimming trunks down Paul’s legs, throwing them to the floor and Paul can sigh a sigh of relief.

How weird it is, this thing. He’s seen John in action before, countless of times really, but he had never expected to one day be on the receiving end of his touch. Not like this.

It’s a dull kind of pleasure, what with his tipsy state and all. A pleasure that starts so slow, trickling through his body,. As John takes him in his mouth, caresses him with his tongue. But with every passing moment, the numbness drifts away and the feeling builds. Wet and slow and careful. John pins his hips to the bed and swallows him down.

“Fuck.” Paul muffles a cry behind the back of his hand. John moans around him and it sends him over the edge. It ends so quickly, he gasps, he erupts, he deflates. Still reeling from the feeling when John crawls up his body to settle on top of him. Riding out his own pleasure against the grove of Paul’s hip. Quick, desperate. Paul holds him through it, holds him tight.

They cling to each other when it’s over. John panting against his neck, digging his fingers into his skin, Paul with his arms around him. Falling asleep has never been so easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't got more than vague ideas for the last chapter, so I might take a little longer to update, sorryyyy! Thank you to everybody who's read this far! 
> 
> (me throwing around poker terms without knowing how the game works and being too stupid to understand a thing when I tried reading about it lollll)


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